A Valentine tale

Sunday

Feb 10, 2013 at 6:00 AMFeb 10, 2013 at 12:59 PM

By Lisa M. Careau SPECIAL TO THE TELEGRAM & GAZETTE

My parents, Guy and Rita (Grise) Careau, were married during the Second World War, raised seven children, and owned Careau's Mower Service in North Brookfield, which they operated for almost four decades. Their time together was filled with providing for their large family; they worked hard side-by-side, and also celebrated the family, friends and neighbors who bore witness to both the joys and struggles they faced through the years

There are no longer any Careaus residing in the Brookfields. I was the last to leave when, in July of 2011, I retired from my position as director of the Merriam-Gilbert Public Library in West Brookfield and relocated to Western Massachusetts.

I was also the last to be born, and my place in the birth order presented me with a unique perspective — an established family history to reflect upon. By the time I arrived, my parents had already been married almost 20 years.

The earliest recollection I have of my parents' wedding anniversary was their silver — their 25th. It was 1968, I was 7 years old, and it was a surprise party in the finished basement of my Aunt Carmel's house in Ware. My parents were led, by my aunt, down the stairs into the darkened room where my brothers and sisters and I were gathered, and at that precise moment when the lights were flipped on, we all yelled, at the top of our lungs, “Surprise!” (and were they ever). But that's not where this story begins.

It seems as though my mother couldn't wait to tell her children the story of how she and my father met. I don't remember the first time I heard it, but by the time she did tell me the tale, the events of it had occurred more than 20 years earlier (ancient history to a little kid). I do remember she kept a yellowed and tattered newspaper clipping marking the momentous occasion tucked away in a kitchen drawer. Why she didn't keep it in her bedroom, say, amongst personal things in her bureau, I don't know. Perhaps, when she asked one of us kids to retrieve a tablecloth or something from that kitchen drawer, she hoped we would come upon it, and from time to time ask her to recall the whole story, as I will do now.

A Valentine's Day ball was set for Friday, Feb. 13, 1942, at the David Hale Fanning Trade School in Worcester, and my mother, who did not have a date, desperately wanted to go. She asked her roommate if she knew of anyone who might consider escorting her to the annual winter event.

The roommate mentioned a particular young man from her hometown of Gardner, with whom she was friendly and would be willing to ask. However, she also warned my mother that he never lacked for dates, and so she had better not fall in love with him, as he would surely break her heart.

My mother assured her roommate that she would do no such thing. She simply wanted to go to the ball, and a date was required to do so. Thus, the arrangements were made, and my father, who loved to dance, readily agreed to accompany my mother on this blind date.

Being a formal affair, the ball required finer clothes than my mother owned. Her entire ensemble was borrowed from the young women with whom she resided at the all-female St. Joseph's residence on High Street while attending the trade school. Everything, except for her undergarments, was loaned to her from the fellow residents, who seemed to be almost as excited as she about the upcoming date.

The day of the ball finally arrived, and my father, dressed in a stylish suit of clothes, was led by a nun to a sitting room to wait while she retrieved my mother. My father sat in a chair, thumbing through a magazine, and within a few minutes, he heard a voice inquire, “Mr. Careau?” and looking up, saw my mother standing before him, and fell instantly in love.

That evening my mother was chosen queen of the Sweetheart Ball and a crown of flowers was placed upon her head, a corsage pinned to her dress, and the Telegram & Gazette snapped that iconic family photo, which appeared along with an article about the ball. Although they didn't know it then, love had set them on a journey, producing a great love story that lasted for more than 60 years.

Over 70 years have passed since their fateful meeting, and both of my parents are now gone, but on the 69th anniversary, when my father was still with us, I called, as I often did, to let him know that I was thinking of him on this special day. He paused and put the phone down for a few moments to collect himself — I could tell he was wiping away tears.

You see, we had lost her, his beloved wife, my dear mother, to cancer just about eight years earlier, and, although they faced some seemingly insurmountable challenges throughout their marriage, they deeply loved each other right up to the very end. It occurred to me just then: this fairytale story of their first meeting, which had always seemed to be about my mother, was in fact, about my father, for it was he whom Cupid took aim at that evening, and in an instant, without warning, his Valentine Queen forever and utterly captured his heart.